She thought she would die from the pleasure of it. The gentle sucking was causing a myriad of exquisite sensations to course through her and settle at the juncture of her thighs.
“Quentin, oh, please…”
Only the two of them and their overpowering need for each other seemed to matter.
He deposited her on the bed and came down on top of her. His kiss was all hot and hungry male passion.
His hands were everywhere, caressing, stroking, smoothing, stoking her passion. Her bra was disposed of and her br**sts lay against his hair-roughened chest. The friction, coupled with the feel of his erection at the juncture of her thighs, caused the tension to coil ever tighter within her.
He sat up quickly, and though she felt momentarily bereft, she was glad to see him shrug out of his suit jacket and then divest himself of his shirt and tie.
His chest was covered in a T of curly hair that tapered down and disappeared into the waistband of his pants, which could not hide his erection.
Her gaze lingered for a second before rising up to meet his eyes. The passion reflected there caused her breath to catch.
She'd wanted him, wanted this, seemingly forever. She raised her arms to him but he shook his head.
“No, not yet,” he murmured. “First let's get you out of these.” He unbuttoned her pants and peeled them from her, panties and all, careful not to jolt her injured ankle.
She felt vulnerable, exposed, lying there before him, without an item of clothing to hide any of her flaws. She lay still, waiting for his reaction and was surprised by his slightly crooked grin.
Trailing his eyes from her h*ps up to her face, he explained, “Your hair is the same color all over. I was curious about that.”
She felt the heat rise to her face even as he chuckled and came down beside her, his leg urging hers apart. His hand cupped her intimately before he used two fingers to begin a swirling motion against her hot center. Slowly and deliberately he built an ache of pleasure until she squirmed on the bed for release.
“Quentin!” she gasped.
“I want to hear you say 'yes,”' he reproached on a laughing groan. “Can you say it for me, sweetheart? I want to hear you say it.”
Coherent thought was impossible. Never had she felt so sensual.
“Give yourself to me,” he rasped.
His supplication was Liz's undoing. She went spinning into oblivion. “Oh, yes! Yes! Please, Quentin!” He made a guttural sound of satisfaction at her cl**ax.
After her gaze refocused, he came up over her. “We're not finished yet, honey. Not by a long shot.”
Just as he bent his head and positioned himself to enter her, they both heard it. The unmistakable sound of the front door opening, followed by a called-out “Hallo-o? Quentin?”
The breath hissed out of Quentin as he slumped on top of her, collapsing in seeming defeat. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Liz tried to clear her head. “Who—?”
“Muriel. The housekeeper,” Quentin's muffled voice announced grimly from the pillow next to her.
“Oh. Ohh!!” Liz struggled to sit up. “Oh, my.”
Quentin lifted his head and gripped Elizabeth's arms to stop her from struggling. “I'm upstairs, Muriel,” he shouted. “I'll be down in a minute.” Then he levered himself off of her, generously giving her a hand so she could sit up.
Her gaze took in his muscled, still aroused body. The man was flat-out gorgeous.
“Stop giving me those looks, sweetheart. Otherwise, we'll finish what we started, Muriel or no Muriel.”
She felt the stain of a blush and quickly looked about the bed for any item of clothing within her reach.
“Here.” He held her bra and panties in his fist. “They were on the floor.”
“Thank you.” Then with as much dignity as she could muster, she took her underwear from him.
“Victoria's Secret black satin. I would never have pegged you,” he said, pulling on his trousers.
She felt her blush deepen. “Stop it,” she muttered. She envied the way he'd rapidly collected himself when they'd been interrupted.
He sat down on the bed next to her, his still unbuttoned shirt gaping open, and lifted her chin so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “You have the most fascinating blush.” He glanced down. “It starts amazingly far down.”
She pulled her chin away. “Irish blood. Some of us aren't blessed with a poker face.”
He grinned. “Thank God for that.”
She jumped when he bent and placed a moist kiss at the center of her cle**age.
He winked, looking devilish. “Just wanted to see if it feels as hot as it looks.”
She grabbed a pillow and aimed for his laughing face, but he grabbed it before it could reach its mark. “Get dressed. I'll stall Muriel and be back in a minute to help you downstairs.”
As soon as he was gone, Liz tried to make herself as presentable as possible. She ran a brush through her hair and applied some lipstick. Her clothes were a little mussed, but they'd have to do.
She mulled over what had just happened—or rather, what hadn't, thanks to Muriel's fortuitous interruption. She'd been angry with Quentin's high-handedness when they'd left the doctor's office. Yet, a short time later, she'd been rolling on his bed with him.
She had to be careful and guard her emotions. Quentin had made it clear that theirs would be a union based on practicalities and that's just the way he wanted it. If she didn't remember that, she'd be in trouble.
Muriel turned out to be a pleasant, plump-faced woman around sixty with steel-gray hair and glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
“Allison sent you over,” Quentin repeated slowly.
“Why, yes, dear,” Muriel said. “She called me about an hour ago. Said she'd heard Liz had had a fall and you'd taken her to your doctor. When the doctor told her you'd mentioned on the way out that you were taking Liz home to keep an eye on her, she called me straight off.”
Liz caught Quentin's droll look and bit her inner cheek to keep from laughing.
“Yes, indeed,” Muriel continued. “She suggested I might want to come on over to see if someone was needed to look after Liz.” Muriel placed her hand over her heart. “In a bit of a muddle, aren't we?”
Quentin had his suspicions about his sister, but decided to keep quiet about them for now. “A muddle all right.” And he knew exactly which of his siblings was responsible. He scratched the back of his head.
Muriel gave him a beatific smile. Celine's bridge partner knew how to play it fast and sly. He'd bet against the house that Muriel was in cahoots with his sister. “I'm going to go back to work. On the way home, I'll pick up some things for Elizabeth from her house.”